I have a distant memory of my childhood: I’m wrapping my arms around my shoulders and rolling down a hill, free and full of life as my soul smiles back at the sun while at the same time, I’m lost in the turning, bathed in a warm light that’s interrupted by the tumbling chaos.
But I can’t remember the hill or where it was. Southwest Oklahoma, where I grew up, is mainly flat. You can take off running west and only bump into something once you reach the Rocky Mountains. Hills are practically nonexistent.
My wife, Lori, on the other hand, has vivid memories of rolling down hills. Listening to her, it sounds like it happened yesterday. She and her childhood friend, Debbie (still friends today), would roll down Glenniffer Hill, close to their elementary school, not far from the Smoky River in Salina, Kansas. The two would roll and roll and roll the bottom of the hill, get up, dizzied, bent over giggling, then planting both feet solidly on the ground, race back up the top, and roll down again.
I only have that one vague memory of rolling down a hill somewhere. Still, it’s a good memory. I can feel it still.
What about rolling down a hill awakens the child within us?
Surrendering to something that dwarfs our lives invites us to roll in uncertainty. It’s thrilling and freeing. But until we roll into it, it’s daunting and repressive.
As we age, having mended our share of bumps and bruises, the caution component tends to override the attraction component, threatening to slam the breaks on that free-falling feel for freedom.
As adults, we are prone to stand at the top, staring down the hill, where we’re safe. Stationary, insulated from the unknown, we’re wrapped neatly in a package of our mundane making.
When he was a little guy, four or five years old, I used to take our grandson for short walks. At one place along the way, we looked down a small hill. I would pretend to lose control and run down that hill, a captive to its uncertain terrain. Eli would mimic me, wildly waving his arms as he uncontrollably descended after me, cackling all the way. At the bottom of the hill, we would celebrate our courage.
Then, climbing back up the hill, he wanted to do it again, but after several runs, he announced he wanted to ROLL down the hill.
I warned him: briars can prick, grass can itch, and unseen stumps can bruise.
Maybe I should have let the briars scratch him, the grass itch him, and the stumps bruise him.
Losing that sense that we are in control is unnerving, even (should I say, especially) when it extends to our supervision of others.
Psalm 37:5 has been one of my favorite Scriptures for years. “Commit your way to the Lord; trust in him, and he will act.”
Then I looked closer. The phrase “commit your way to the Lord” is more literally in Hebrew, “Roll your way upon the Lord.”
“Roll your way,” I thought.
Trusting God to act in our lives and those we hold dear presents us with a question mark more often than an exclamation mark.
I hesitate to roll myself onto the Lord completely. What if God moves while I’m rolling into Him, and I make a fool of myself? What will happen if those I love stand before me with cuts and scrapes from briers, scratching from rolling through life’s tall grass, bruised from the unseen stumps?
Standing at the top of the hill is frightening.
And at the same time.
It’s thrilling.
That’s why those childhood memories of rolling down a hill linger more than sitting alone in a corner, safe and secure.
Knowing the One who is The Ever-Present Now, the One who has promised to stay with me at the top, middle, and bottom of the hill—never leaving or forsaking—causes faith to bubble up within me.
And suddenly, I can’t help myself. Looking at those I love, I say,
“Come join me, let’s roll upon the Lord.”